Our own little sweatshop

While I was mowing the lawn, my wife made a skirt for my daughter.

A skirt. 

Sure, it takes a long time to write a novel, and it requires a modicum of creativity and skill. 

But she made a skirt. 

Just whipped it out like it was nothing.  Then she made two more.

And another as a gift.

I don’t know why we ever need to buy clothing again.